Winter's in.  The slow sad science
of uncertainty is cancelled.
This is how it is: the definite head
whose definite name is one among familiars
recedes, the quiet motnhs of light thin out,
vanish at a word.

This is the end of a beautiful moment.
I am no longer myself, I am removed and distant
as a dead white sun.  There is no mistake.
Shadows shift from shadows to a thud of sure
Have you seen a madman dance?
I shall dance for you in bright red shoes
borrowed from my mother,
I shall wear my father's heart candid
on my shirt.

This is how Herr Kafka was, erratic ina coffin
bound in flesh, solemn at the mention of a loved
one's name, yet dead, quite dead.
He shall write my epitaph: like a dog, like
a dog.
And my death is sure.  I died ten years ago.
This is a fragile remnant that you see.
I have fathered many lies and the child
of my mistake is breathing now uncertainly.

You are the cold reflection of my eye,
the glassy image of perfection.
You see me fat in grief and tears mourning
one dead love stopped years ago.
The picture's in my head, it masturbates
an image of a face with bleeding eyes.

Now I am separate, myself and myself
stung with rejection.
This is the end of a beautiful moment.
The sad tick of a dull heart booms loud.
The echo of forgotten names splinters
in my head.

Winter's in.
How cold is ice in summer?

John Cornwall

If you've any comments on his poems, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.